nothing but darkness
by Gmariam
Summary: 'You are no longer the man you thought you were, for you are broken beyond repair.' A very AU look at a dark and bitter Ianto Jones. Rating for language and multiple character deaths, as well as possible triggers. Not my usual style, so consider yourself warned.


_nothing but darkness_

You are no longer the man you thought you were.

Nor are you the man _they_ thought you were, and certainly not the man _he_ thought you were. And you think in terms of the past because you have changed irrevocably: you are so different now that you do not recognize yourself some days.

Empty. Bitter. Broken beyond repair.

One thought, and one thought alone, sustains you. It keeps you up all night and then gives you purpose when the sun rises. It motivates you to put on the mask you've been wearing since your first day, when all you really want to do is rip it off and shatter it and let them see your anger and pain. And it stops you from running, from ending it all, before you can follow through with this one, all consuming thought.

Vengeance.

According to the dictionary page you ripped out of the book on your shelf in the middle of one particularly dark night, vengeance is punishment inflicted in return for a wrong. It is not unlike revenge, although revenge sounds more cliché, and you prefer to think of it as vengeance because that sounds more noble and less dysfunctional.

_(One day, I'll have the chance to save you ... and I'll watch you suffer and die.)_

Every day those words echo inside your head, beating a staccato rhythm into your brain that you know would drive you insane if you didn't embrace it and let it consume you. It's the surrender that allows you to keep your mind, to carefully conceal your thoughts and feelings behind the facade they all assume is that of a man grieving for his lost girlfriend. Yet you have not submitted to the grief; you have given in to the bitter rage and resentment instead, and it fuels your ability to keep calm and carry on for the Crown, to maintain the carefully constructed visage that you know they want to see.

Of course it's not real, but it's better than allowing them to see the real you now, the man you've become through it all. Through the death and loss and bodies and cover-ups and flirtations and lies. Through Jasmine and Mary and Brynblaidd…

_(Human cannibals. Not even aliens.)_

Your hands curl into fists as you gaze the marks the handcuffs left on your forearms, still visible even a week later. If you looked into the mirror you would see the bruises where they beat you. And yet your anger is not for them, no…it's for Jack. Jack did this to you, did everything, _ruined_ everything. Jack Harkness with his sugar-coated words and his teasing touch and his smile and those eyes and—

**Fuck Jack.**

He killed Lisa. He killed Jasmine. He killed Mary. And he's killed countless others. You know this from pouring through his files before seducing him into a job, from organizing the hub archives and finding even more evidence of his sordid past. You know from seeing it, from hearing it, from finally recognizing that he is a man who has no feelings whatsoever when it comes to death: Jack Harkness does not hesitate to kill, nor does he regret it when he's done.

_(Never mind that he _didn't_ kill you.)_

No, you don't think about that, because it's likely the bastard has a plan. Maybe he'll Retcon you later, after he thinks you've suffered enough, or at least after he's got into your trousers. Oh, that's wonderfully twisted: Jack Harkness lusting after you, wanting _you_. You flatter yourself.

But you try it out, to see if you're right. Because if you are, your vengeance _(revenge)_ will be that much better. You've already betrayed the part of him that lives and breathes Torchwood. Why not seduce and betray the rest? Oh yes, that is the new plan. Flirt like there is no tomorrow.

_(And of course you don't think about how good it might feel, to have his lips glide over yours, to have his cock in your hands, to thrust yours into his mouth. All in the line of duty, _sir_.)_

You tell yourself it's for her, in the most warped sense possible. Seducing a man for the woman you loved: god, how sick. Yet, Jack has finally forgiven you and is slowly starting to flirt again, so you flirt back, far more than before, and he responds with an eagerness you refuse to dwell on. He's a whore with a reputation for shagging anyone and anything. You are not special: he only wants your arse spread across the desk.

When Suzie dies again—oh look, Jack's killed a team member now!—you take her body to the morgue to process it. It's still your job, after all, and you're damn good at it. But then Jack shows up, and suddenly here is your chance: the opportunity to plunge the first stake into the heart of Jack Harkness.

_(If he has one.)_

You offer yourself. You offer your stopwatch. You offer a sly smile and a willing body, and he takes you up on it, surprised but eager. Ten minutes exactly and everything changes, just like the day Suzie first died, just like the day Lisa died. But you try not to think of Lisa as clothing falls to the ground, and the stopwatch breaks beneath slippery, sweating bodies writhing on the desk. You definitely don't think about how good it feels, about the sounds coming from Jack's mouth, the taste of him or the smell of him. You think only about what it will feel like when he is dead, and it's all over—not what it feels like now.

The next night it happens again, and then again. It is amazing, and because of that you hate it. It fills the emptiness for brief moments, moments you want to both hold onto and furiously scrub away when it's over. Jack watches you now, smiles at you, touches you when he thinks no one is looking. Oh, you've got him under your spell, don't you?

_(Or are you under his?)_

Finally it is too much; it is time, however unexpectedly the opportunity presents itself. You are working late in the archives one night when you come across something from Torchwood One, something you had already catalogued there, something that was obviously scavenged by Jack after Canary Wharf fell. Visions of Cybermen, of flames and death and destruction assault your senses. You are back there fighting your way out, then fighting your way back in to save her, the sounds and the smell and the pain in your leg real once more as you gaze down at the weapon in your hands.

Jack Harkness was not there, and he did nothing to help. He picked over the ruins like a vulture and brought the remains back to the hub. Like you had, only he had destroyed the one living person you had saved from the wreckage. He had killed her, never once considering Lisa Hallet's life as a human being—only her death as a Cyberman.

_(You know damn well she was never truly human again after the conversion started; you just refused to see it.)_

As you stare blindly at the weapon in your hands—class four energy pistol—there are footsteps behind you. A strong hand curls around your waist, a familiar tongue darts across your neck. You suck in a gasp as you turn around, the gun raised and ready to blow him into the next galaxy.

Jack steps back, that fucking cocksure grin on his face. "Sorry to startle you," he says, voice too steady for a man with a gun in his face. "I didn't realize you were working with a weapon."

You prime it, for having studied it at Torchwood One you know exactly how it works and how much damage it can cause. This is your moment, your chance. It's perfect: you can pull the trigger and claim you were startled. Hell, you can even claim assault if you really wanted to. Sexual assault. There's proof everywhere—the marks on your body that he's left each night, as if labeling you as his. You are not his, and you will never be.

You drop your mask completely for the first time since Lisa died, and suddenly, Jack sees _everything_.

He says your name, that damn voice with that damn accent radiating control in what is definitely not situation under his control anymore. Your hand is steady, and you simply grin at him—or perhaps leer is more appropriate; you're not sure as you can't see your own face, only his, marked with sadness and grief, surprise and uncertainty.

"Sorry, sir," you tell him, stepping closer, until the barrel of the gun is pressing a circle into his forehead. You'd tried this once before, pointed your gun at him and threatened to shoot him, but he'd disarmed you so quickly it had been as humiliating as everything else that had happened that dark night. Yet this time he must sense something different: you are not desperate now, you are determined. You _will_ shoot before he can disarm you, and he recognizes that from the look in your eyes, the set of your mouth. You nod as the realization passes across his face.

"Why?" he whispers, his voice an agonized plea for answers.

"For everything," you reply, your own voice low and cold. "For everyone. But most of all, for her."

_(How do you like those Welsh vowels now, _sir_?)_

"I can help you," Jack says, and you laugh at him, a slow, bitter laugh that sends chills through both of you. Maybe you have gone insane now. Maybe it was always controlling you, when you thought you had embraced the madness to keep your mind. It doesn't matter anymore; it will be over in moments.

"No, you can't," you tell him, tempted to roll your eyes in that way you know he likes so much. Still your hand is steady. You are proud of that fact, more proud of it than anything you've done at Torchwood Three. You are about to kill Jack Harkness, and you feel nothing but pride at your calm, cool, and collected hand.

"But why?" Jack asks again, and you shake your head, refusing to give him that last answer, because sometimes there are no answers, and he should know that. Why did the Cybermen attack Canary Wharf? Why was Lisa converted? Why did you survive only to live through this tortuous hell on earth?

"Because I can," you simply reply. "Good-bye, Jack." And you pull the trigger.

_(The recoil sucks on a space blaster and nearly rips your arm out of its socket.)_

Jack Harkness is blown away, brains and blood and bone exploding all over the archives you work so hard to keep pristine and organized. A part of you hates that death is so messy sometimes, and yet…it is also so wonderfully destructive and final. He crumples to the ground, and you smile. You watch as the crimson tide of death flows around him, staining that damn shirt and those fucking braces, ruining that perfect hair.

And still you smile, because it is done.

Setting the gun on the table, you wonder how long it will be before the others come down. Or maybe they've already figured out why Jack follows you to the archives, and you'll have time to escape because they'd never want to walk in on _that_. Really, you don't care. You begin to pack away what you were working on, knowing it will be the last time you see it. You log yourself out of the computer, using the final close out procedures reserved for agents killed in the line of duty. You consider doing the same for Jack, but decide the others can do it as one last kick in the arse before you walk out the door and never look back.

Just as you are ready to leave, there is a strong hand on your shoulder, and you turn around in shock.

Jack is standing there, blue eyes blazing in fury. He's got his Webley out, the ancient piece of shit weapon pressed into your neck, just as he had done once before.

_(History repeating itself. What a bitch.)_

"What the hell is going on?" he growls, and you have only seen him this angry one other time. Of course it was directed at you that time as well; must be your dumb luck to piss off the captain, even if you are fucking him.

You have no words, because what the hell is he doing there, holding a gun to your head? He should be dead. You've got his blood on your new suit, on your leather shoes, on your hands. How can he have survived a direct hit? How can there be no sign of the energy pulse that just ripped off the top of his skull? It's impossible.

_(And it's just not fair.)_

If Jack Harkness is alive even though you just very clearly killed him, then how are you supposed to have your vengeance _(revenge)_? Try again? Be more creative? Yet it's as if he's reading your mind, because he grins ferally and leans closer, almost as if he's going to kiss you.

"I can't die," he whispers before stepping back, the gun still pointed toward your face. "But you can."

"You fucking bastard," you say matter-of-factly. "Of course you can't die. Jack fucking Harkness, immortal hero."

"At your service," Jack replied sarcastically. "Now tell me, what the hell was that for? Because I'd be dead if I could die."

"And I'd be rejoicing," you snap back. "You _should _be dead. You're a monster who does nothing but kill people."

Jack opens his mouth to defend himself, but you lash out past the gun and slam your fist into Jack's jaw, just as you had on the Plass months ago. "A fucking monster."

Jack finally lowers the gun, rubbing his jaw. "You're no better."

"Not anymore," you reply, your voice dripping with hatred. "You did this to me, you took everything. And you've done it to Jasmine, to Tosh, to Suzie. Who will you hurt next, Jack? Owen? Gwen? You deserve to suffer and die, not them."

"I do," Jack agreed, throwing you for a loop with his unexpected agreement. "But I can't. So you'll have to come up with something else for your childish grasp at revenge."

You laugh hysterically. "You think this is about revenge, Jack? It's not revenge. It's not about hurting you because you hurt me. It's about righting a wrong and stopping it from ever happening again."

"You can't stop it," he whispers, laying his gun down on the table between you and holding his hands out, palms up as he moves toward you. "No one can. I've died more times than you can imagine, suffered more than you could possibly bear." He stops and his face takes on that look of pity, of sympathy that you hate so much, yet also of pain. "So what now, Ianto Jones? What now?"

You glance sideways at the gun on the table, disgusted that for all the damage the other one inflicted, Jack simply stood up as if nothing had happened. And yet, as you stare at it, you suspect that there is something else in the room that will hurt Jack just as much, if not more.

You.

Again.

He trusted you once, and you betrayed him. He trusted you again, enough to let you into his bed. _(Or was that pity? Does it matter now?)_ Jack Harkness is a man who forgives, who moves on. Apparently not dying does that to a man; what's the point of holding a grudge for eternity? Yet you also know that Jack Harkness is a man who carries his burdens like a heavy weight upon his shoulders, and so the only thing you can do is add one more onus to the load.

You will be his new burden, the guilt he will carry forever. He will live with the knowledge that not only has he killed dozens, if not hundreds, of people, but that he drove one of his own his team (_his_ _fuck buddy, even)_ to death as well. And you know, even though you mean nothing to him alive, that your death will mean everything, because he will blame himself…as he should.

He must be able to read your mind, for as you feel the smile of resolve slowly turn at the corners of your mouth, his own face blanches in fear. You both reach for the Webley at the same time, but he is quicker and slaps it away.

"No," he rasps. "I won't let you."

"You don't get to decide, _sir,_" you hiss back, pulling your own weapon from your waistband. "It's not your choice, and it's not your life. But it will be your fault, Jack. It's all your fault. It always is, and it always will be."

You lift the gun to your head; this time your hand is not steady, and you breathe deeply to bring it under control. Jack shakes his head, a desperate look in his eyes that could almost mean he cares, but you know that he just doesn't want the burden of yet another death on his shoulders, and you _will not_ spare him that.

_(He deserves it. He earned it. He brought it upon himself.)_

You take a step backwards, away from Jack, and release the safety.

"And you, my _Captain_, there on that sad height."

Jack's eyes widen, and you hold them fiercely with your gaze, refusing to let him look away.

"Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray."

"No," he whispers, shaking his head again in denial. "Don't." You raise your eyebrows as if daring him to stop you; he gasps as if in pain. Good.

"Do not go gentle into that good night."

"Please," he begs. You take your last breath and force your eyes to stay open and focused on the man before you, willing this one last act to be the one that breaks him.

"Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

Your finger curls back against the cool metal. There is a shout that turns instantly to deafening silence—pain that shatters into shards of glass as the light goes out—

And all you know is gone.

_(It really is nothing but darkness.)_

* * *

Author's Note:

I did say this was not my usual style. Once again I found myself inspired to write a darker Ianto Jones. Gareth David-Lloyd had said something at NYCC about Ianto coming back darker, twisted, upset, and how fun it would be to play him as a bit of a villain. This is not that story, given it's set Series 1 and not post-COE, but it was none-the-less inspired by that comment. And it's me as a writer simply seeing if I could write something as dark as this. I think I succeeded. It's quite a bit darker than 'And You Let Him Go' that's for certain. Is it sunshine and rainbows? Not at all. It's barely readable. Is it plausible? Perhaps. I am however, eternally grateful that it did not go down this way.

The last four lines Ianto quoted at the end are from the Dylan Thomas poem "Do Not Go Gently Into That Good Night." I only changed 'father' to 'Captain' to really make it hit home. Thank you for reading. I've been sitting on this for a while now. Please feel free to ask me about it if you need to. And know that just about everything else I'm working on is holiday fluff. ;-)


End file.
